


Stress Relief

by Apuzzlingprince



Series: Witcher Fanfics [11]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Blindfolds, Bondage, Light BDSM, M/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-04-28 23:55:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14460582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apuzzlingprince/pseuds/Apuzzlingprince
Summary: Dettlaff notices Geralt exhibiting signs of stress. He offers to help Geralt relieve it.





	Stress Relief

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the person who suggested I write some Dettlaff/Geralt BDSM. I had fun with it!

There had been two conditions to Dettlaff leaving Tesham Mutna unscathed: The first, leave Toussaint, and the second, ensure Geralt never saw him again.

Dettlaff fulfilled neither of these requirements, and the only reason Geralt didn’t draw his silver sword upon encountering him at Regis’ residence was Regis’ explanation that it was he himself who had arranged for Dettlaff to be there.

“He requires time to recover from what was done to him by his beloved,” Regis had explained. Geralt found the beseeching note in his voice hard to resist. “I cannot allow him to isolate himself over one woman.”

Though Geralt had little confidence in Regis’ ability to keep Dettlaff under control, Dettlaff’s motivation for lashing out was already dead; there was no reason for him to go off the rails again, and so Geralt tentatively accepted that Dettlaff would now be around whenever he visited Regis.

Accepting that Dettlaff was a permanent fixture in Regis’ life wasn’t enough to put he and Dettlaff on amicable terms, however. They barely spoke, and what few words they did exchange were cold and terse. Neither of them was particularly fond of the other and neither wanted to take any steps to improve their relationship (or lack thereof). This quickly became a source of frustration for Regis, who couldn’t indulge in his usual proclivity for long-winded conversation when the three of them were in the same room, and with how often Dettlaff was found at Regis’ side, this was more frequently than any of them would have liked.

With neither Dettlaff nor Geralt willing to take the first step, it was left to Regis to force them to address their issues with each other. As conventional means seemed unlikely to succeed in their case, it was not a conversation that Regis suggested, but an activity: sparring.

It wasn’t a bad idea. He and Dettlaff were both powerful men with a great deal of excess energy to burn, and now that they were both ‘retired’, they had little other means through which they could burn it. He couldn’t think of a better person to spar with than Dettlaff, who was one of the few able to match him in terms of strength and stamina. Geralt might have had some reservations, but sparring with Dettlaff sounded a hell of a lot easier than trying to talk through their problems.

For Regis’ sake, he was willing to at least try. So they stepped outside together one warm afternoon, shrugged off their outer layers of clothing, and fought. It was nothing too vigorous. Just kicking, punching, dodging – the usual fare, if a little more challenging with how supernaturally fast Dettlaff could move. By the end of it, Geralt was panting and slick with sweat and bruised in several places, but he could honestly say he had enjoyed the experience. Exercise was always more satisfying when done with another person.

That kicked off weekly sparring sessions at Regis’ place, which transitioned into bi-weekly sessions at both Regis’ place and Geralt’s once he and Dettlaff had become more comfortable with each other. It was hard not to become at ease with someone you regularly sparred with, especially when one’s breaks would generally be filled with idle conversation. This idle conversation was little more than discussion of the weather, of Regis, of hobbies, but it gradually worked at the reservations they had with each other until they were deliberately seeking out each other’s company. After a couple of months of this, it occurred to Geralt that they could now be classed as friends. Quite the development considering it wasn’t that long ago that he had been casting Dettlaff furtive glares whenever they were in the same room.

When they had first met, it had obviously not been under the best of circumstances. Now, with no source of discord affecting either of their lives, Geralt was finding him to be good company. Engaging, intelligent, and always genuinely interested in what you had to say, no matter the topic. There were few other people who could listen to Geralt praise Ciri and maintain their interest until the end of his spiel. With how lonely Geralt had been as of late, unable to see his friends as regularly as he would have liked and unwilling to impose on Regis more than he already did, the extra company was most welcome.

One would think having two good friends to rely on, being wealthy for the first time in his life, and enjoying an elevated social status would have rid Geralt of all stress. But that wasn't the case, and Dettlaff noticed.

* * *

They always sparred a short distance from Regis’ crypt, situating themselves among the trampled grass at the back of the graveyard and in the sunlight. They were out of the way there, isolated. No one could see nor hear them, and that included Regis, who favoured working in silence and was thus accommodated for.

It was during the tail-end of one of their sessions that Dettlaff sent him sprawling to the ground with one well-positioned leg. They typically didn’t knock each other over, so this caught Geralt off guard, and he wasn’t able to throw up an arm quick enough to prevent himself from slamming into the earth. He jarred his chest and forearms on the grass; thankfully, it was soft and springy enough to cushion his fall, though he still ended up with some minor scrapes.

Dettlaff followed him down, holding him to the grass with hands wrapped tight around his upper arms. Vampires were vastly stronger than any human being, mutated or otherwise, so Geralt knew it was futile to struggle. He instead glared over his shoulder at Dettlaff, who looked over him impassively, unphased by his anger.

“What is bothering you, Geralt?” asked Dettlaff calmly.

“You, currently,” said Geralt, less calmly.

“I am not doing this without reason.” One of his hands slipped away from Geralt’s arm and came to rest on his straining neck, which he began to massage, rubbing soothing circles into the rigid flesh. “I’d like to know what is causing you stress, so I may help you through it.”

“What the hell’re you doing?” Because whatever it was, it felt _delightful_.

“Massaging your pressure points,” said Dettlaff, his talented fingers making quick work of the knots gathered at the base of his neck. “Now, the source of your stress?”

“None of your business,” mumbled Geralt, closing his eyes. He didn’t much mind Dettlaff sitting atop him provided he continued what he was doing.

“Perhaps you’ll feel more forthcoming later.” Dettlaff's hand roved up into his hair, stroking hard at the back of his scalp. Geralt sighed with pleasure. “Will you permit me to help you relax, Geralt?”

“’M already relaxed,” said Geralt, and this was despite the fact he was getting grass in his mouth and dirt on his naked chest, so Dettlaff was doing a brilliant job.

“I can do far more than this,” said Dettlaff, adjusting himself atop him. “If you will permit me.”

Geralt slid his free arm up under his chin. “Depends on what you’re suggesting.”

“Do you enjoy being bound?”

Geralt twisted himself around just enough to regard Dettlaff with reproach. “Maybe.”

“I am offering something of that nature.”

“…If you’re propositioning me,” began Geralt uncertainly. “You should be forthright about it.”

“I am not suggesting we have sex,” said Dettlaff. “Though I am not opposed to the idea. No, I have done this for friends before, completely platonically.”

“Still not clear on what ‘this’ is supposed to be.”

“Stress relief.” Dettlaff resumed stroking his neck. “Using a combination of bindings, deprivation, and pleasant and painful sensations.”

“Pleasant and painful sensations?” Geralt snorted softly, relaxing under his ministrations once more. “You sure you aren’t propositioning me?”

“I am certainly propositioning something, and you aren’t giving me a straight answer. If you wish to be left alone, I will oblige.”

Geralt considered what was being offered. Bindings and deprivation, he’d said; those were things Geralt already had experience with, and he had enjoyed them enough in the past that he wasn’t at all opposed to them being employed in whatever stress relief Dettlaff wanted to provide. And had Dettlaff’s proposition been sexual, he wouldn’t have minded that, either; Dettlaff was a handsome man, just his type. He’d always had a thing for dark hair and beautiful, bright eyes, though it didn’t sound like sex was what Dettlaff intended for the moment.

“Go on,” he said. “I could use some stress relief.” Having not heard from Ciri in over a month, he was a little on edge. It would be nice to have some reprieve from that.

“Good.”

Dettlaff leaned over him and he heard the hiss of a belt being pulled out of its loops. Geralt wetted his lips, his heart already jumping with anticipation.

“If I start to do something you are not comfortable with,” began Dettlaff while gently pulling Geralt’s hands behind his back, positioning his wrists one on top of the other. “Tell me, and I will stop.”

He coiled the smooth leather around Geralt’s wrists and pulled it taut. Geralt fisted his hands a few times to prevent the loss of circulation as Dettlaff slid the buckle into place.

“Got it,” mumbled Geralt.

Dettlaff’s fingers lightly brushed over Geralt's before retreating. “I don’t have my usual tools, so I will have to make do with what I have on hand.”

He glanced over his shoulder and watched Dettlaff retrieve an unused red handkerchief from a pocket, which he proceeded to fold into a neat rectangle. He carefully turned Geralt’s face back to the grass and positioned the handkerchief over his eyes, tying it in place with a smaller, thinner belt that he buckled at the back of Geralt’s head, tight enough to ensure it wouldn’t slip off, but loose enough that it didn’t hurt.

Geralt took an unsteady breath, unaccustomed to such vulnerability. Bound and blindfolded. He’d experienced these things individually, but never at the same time.

“Are you alright?” asked Dettlaff, running a soothing palm over the slope of his shoulders.

“Fine,” he said, his voice inflected with the slightest hint of excitement. Being put in this position inevitably got the adrenaline pumping, and it didn’t help that they had just finished up a sparring session. Not an intense one, granted, but enough to leave his heart thudding and his muscles tense.

Dettlaff rewarded the promptness of his answer by swiping a hand through his hair, nails scratching harmlessly over his scalp. The touch sent electric shocks racing down Geralt's neck. He shivered.

Without a word, Dettlaff stroked his palm down the shifting muscles in Geralt's back, over his left trapezius, down his latissimus dorsi, sliding to the prominent bobs of his spine at the small of his back and then venturing past the waistband of his trousers, which Dettlaff deftly pulled away from his hips and slid down his tensing thighs. He didn’t complain about being exposed. Whatever Dettlaff was doing, he trusted wouldn’t be done unless Dettlaff was sure they wouldn’t be disturbed. Though, if they were to be found in this position, perhaps by Regis… the idea wasn’t as repellent as it should have been. Evidently he had some kinks even he hadn’t known about.

His underwear soon followed, and thought Dettlaff had insisted this wasn’t to be sexual, he was certainly having his doubts as those too were pushed down his legs and tugged off his ankles. His boots soon followed.

Now completely naked, Geralt shifted beneath Dettlaff, self-conscious.

“You are a beautiful man,” Dettlaff said, with audible veneration.

Geralt swallowed, oddly flustered by the remark. He never knew quite how to take compliments. It was much more customary for people to call him ugly, or weathered, or disfigured. Most did not enjoy the sight of scars, nor the other oddities that came with being a witcher.

Dettlaff sat down in the grass and pulled Geralt into his lap, leaving Geralt to hang over his knees. He spread his fingers over Geralt’s hunched back and touched every inch of Geralt he could reach as he roved down, drawing the fine hairs on Geralt’s skin to attention.

“Beautiful,” he said again, and Geralt dropped his face to the grass, hiding it from view. The hair that fell over his cheeks further obscured his foolish expression.

He took a moment to squeeze at Geralt’s ample thighs, massaging the muscle until the rigidity had seeped away and Geralt was soft and pliable. He didn’t once touch Geralt’s crotch, though by this point, Geralt’s cock had started to stir, half-hard against Dettlaff’s thigh and trapped between their bodies. The fact Geralt was noticeably aroused didn’t seem to bother Dettlaff at all. He supposed, being well over four hundred years old, this was far from the first time he’d had an aroused man splayed over his lap.

He continued to touch Geralt. Every inch of him, drawing heat to the surface of his skin and an odd tingling to particularly sensitive places of his body. He practically moaned when Dettlaff’s thumb brushed the shell of his ear, particularly embarrassing considering he hadn’t known that to be one of his erogenous zones.

“It’s alright,” Dettlaff said soothingly, stroking his knuckles down Geralt’s ear, jaw, and neck, reaching for the warmth gathering at his chest. “Sensitivity is normal. You may make all the sound you need.”

“You’re good at this,” Geralt muttered, dizzied.

“I’ve had time to practice.”

When Dettlaff ceased his ministrations, Geralt conveyed his disapproval in a whimper. He hadn’t meant to make the sound and would have bitten down on it had he known what exactly had been building up in his throat, but Dettlaff didn’t allow him the time to become embarrassed; he slapped a hand down over Geralt’s rump, hard enough to jostle Geralt’s position. The sharp string drew a gasp and a jolt.

“The hell?” he asked. Surprised, but not angry. That stinging slap and the resulting hot throb left his cock swollen with arousal. He wondered if it had left a hand print, blooming bright and obscene on his pale skin.

“Do you wish to stop?” asked Dettlaff, kneading away the pain in Geralt’s buttock.

Geralt shook his head.

In response, Dettlaff applied a strike to each cheek, sending Geralt rocking forward in his lap. He shuddered, burying his face into the grass. Unable to see, he could focus on nothing but the sensations: the sharp sting of each strike and the hot throb that followed; the way his cock dragged on Dettlaff’s thigh, sliding along the smooth fabric of his trousers; the prickle of grass under his knees and feet; the blush gathering on his chest and face and between his legs.

Dettlaff struck again, over both cheeks this time, and Geralt knew there was enough force behind each slap that he would be left with bruises. The realization made his cock twitch. He would be feeling this for days to come.

“Would you like a number?” asked Dettlaff quietly. The hoarse quality of his voice brought Geralt to peak arousal.

“No,” said Geralt, his words equally as hoarse, forced through a tightening throat.

Geralt could not help grunting beneath the force of the next slap.

“Then we shall see just how many you can take,” said Dettlaff.

After his fifth strike, Dettlaff set into a steady, ruthless rhythm that deprived Geralt of his ability to remain still and quiet. His hand came down over Geralt’s ass, his thighs, and even delved between his legs to assault the sensitive skin there, drawing shrill sounds out of Geralt and prompting him to squirm. The belt binding his wrists together prevented him from moving far.

Every so often Dettlaff would pause to sooth his aching flesh, massaging the heat out of it with his lovely, cool fingers. Every touch felt heavy, sharp, almost too much for him to bare, but Geralt raised his ass up into it anyway, heedless of how obscene he must have looked.

At some point he ceased closing his mouth. His lips remained parted, drool gathering at the corner of them and sliding down his chin, dripping off into the grass, and he hadn’t the presence of mind to care. He groaned as Dettlaff gave a hard slap to seat of his ass, his wrists twisting against the belt, drawing thin pink lines into his skin. Between the intense, tingling heat radiating down his ass and thighs and the animalistic sounds – growls and pants and the like - Dettlaff pushed through clenched teeth, he expected he would come in Dettlaff’s lap without even needing be touched. His cock was hard enough that it had begun to ache.

He lost count of how many strikes he had received around the ‘thirty’ point. The numbers slipped from his mind, replaced by the pleasant disorientation of approaching orgasm.

“You take this so well,” Dettlaff breathed, and the praise was too much on top of everything else. “Such an incredible man you are. Incredible and breathtakingly beautiful.” A sob tore out of his throat, then, soft and choked, and he ejaculated onto Dettlaff’s trousers in messy strings.

When he’d finished riding out his orgasm, he fell bonelessly upon Dettlaff’s lap, lying in his own come. His body continued to shake long after completion had finished surging through him and he struggled to catch his breath.

“Geralt,” said Dettlaff softly, breaching the fog that had enveloped Geralt’s mind. His backside burned pleasantly. Dettlaff massaged it with one hand, the other stroking his hair. “If you would like to tell me what is bothering you, you may do so now.”

“Ciri,” said Geralt, without thinking. He swallowed down the saliva that had accumulated in his mouth. “My daughter.”

While he no longer had to risk his life to provide for himself, nor worry about the well-being of his friends, Geralt did have to live with the knowledge Ciri was out there doing exactly what he had fought for so long to leave behind. He would often lay in bed at night and hope that she was safe, that the path was kinder to her than it had ever been to him, that she wouldn’t have to face the sort of discrimination he had, nor become desensitised to her own mortality as Geralt was. If he’d been given the choice, the life of a witcher was not one he would have chosen for Ciri… but she had been insistent, and in some ways, he felt as though he’d led a lamb to the slaughter by taking her as an impressionable little girl to Kaer Morhen.

It was ridiculous, really; she always came to him in good health, but he didn’t seem able to shake his agitation.

“Go on," encouraged Dettlaff.

“Worried about the life she’s chosen. Being a witcher isn’t… isn’t a good life.” An unsteady inhale. “But that’s how I raised her, to be what she is. I raised her to be a witcher.”

“From what you've told me, she wasn’t in training for long.” Dettlaff slowly hauled Geralt out of his lap wrapped his arms around him, holding him tight to his chest. Geralt was loose and comfortable in Dettlaff's grasp. He hadn’t realized just how much he’d needed this – all of this. The pain, the pleasure, the comfort. It was wonderfully freeing to let himself be so wholly vulnerable with another person. “You didn't raise her into anything. You merely provided an option she would not have had otherwise. You’ve no reason to believe you in any way forced her hand," continued Dettlaff, his mouth moving against the crown of Geralt’s head. There was sweat there, but Dettlaff didn’t seem particularly bothered by it. "In fact, by your own admission, didn't you stop her from being raised into something she didn't want _twice_? I think it's clear you care about her autonomy." Dettlaff tutted and shook his head. "With her unique background and skill set, she could have been anything, and she decided she wanted to be a witcher, like her father. I'd stop stressing and be flattered if I were you. And if you were to mention how you felt to her, I don't doubt she would tell you the exact same thing."

Geralt nodded, saying nothing. Those words were exactly what he had needed to hear.

“You ought to be nicer to yourself,” said Dettlaff, his voice oddly distant now, muffled by the haze of exhaustion and satisfaction. “You are a good man, better than you like to think.” Lips on his ear, whispering now. “I had never thought I would have a positive association with a witcher, but I am proud to call you my friend.”

Geralt breathed started to even out and he closed his eyes behind his blindfold. He nosed his way into the junction between Dettlaff’s shoulder and neck and lingered there, breathing in the musky smell of the other man, taking comfort in it. He had not been this content in a very long time.

“Here, let me remove those…”

Geralt thought he might have grunted a reply, but it was hard to keep track of exactly what he was doing through the fuzziness blanketing his thoughts. He must have, though, as Dettlaff carefully undid the buckles on both his bindings and blindfold and slid them away, dropping them to the grass. His soft fingers soothed the marks on his wrists.

“We’ll get you inside,” said Dettlaff as he retrieved Geralt’s underwear, manoeuvring Geralt’s legs into the holes and pulling them into place. Geralt looped his arms around Dettlaff’s shoulders to make it easier on him. “You need to rest,” he added, and Geralt distantly agreed. He felt thoroughly wrung-out.

Dettlaff took care that Geralt was comfortable as he hooked an arm under Geralt’s legs and heaved him up off the grass. He left Geralt’s trousers and the belts where they had fallen and headed for the crypt. As this graveyard was scarcely visited, it was unlikely they would be stolen in their absence.

Regis only needed glance at them as they entered to understand what had gone on between them. He offered no comment, nor approached them, instead gesturing Dettlaff in the direction of his room. Dettlaff nodded his thanks and they headed into the deeper depths of the crypt, where Regis kept a thick, comfortable mattress on the ground for sleeping. Dettlaff lowered Geralt to it and lay himself down beside him, pulling Geralt firmly to his chest.

“Next time,” said Dettlaff thoughtfully. “We will use proper equipment.”

“You’d want to do this again?” asked Geralt drowsily.

“Provided you wouldn’t mind, yes.”

Geralt’s eyelids drooped. It was incredible that such a simple thing could leave him so spent and sated. His ass continued to throb pleasantly and he was sure bruises were beginning to form. He would have to examine them later and revel in the memory of how he’d received them.

“I wouldn’t mind in the least,” he mumbled.

“I am glad,” said Dettlaff. “I would hate to be deprived of such a sight, and I’ve many ideas.”

Geralt couldn’t resist a smile. “Thank you, Dettlaff. For all that, and for your words.”

Dettlaff gave him a gentle squeeze, tucking his face into Geralt’s neck. “You are most welcome.”

With how exhausted he was, Geralt didn’t manage to remain awake for long. He fell into a deep, blissful slumber in Dettlaff’s arms.


End file.
